


Lost and Found

by hibye



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Fluff, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, just a soft story about love and happiness, two old men and a baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 21:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibye/pseuds/hibye
Summary: “A synth, a ghoul, and a baby walking into a bar sounds like a set-up.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Lost and Found**

Word comes that Nate is at the bridge; he is injured but alive. MacCready hesitates to throw down his cards, conscious of the growing pot on the coffee table.

“Fuck it, Mac,” says Hancock, “just take the caps and let’s go.”

MacCready doesn’t need to be told twice. He sweeps the caps into an empty ammo pouch and hops to his feet. When they step outside, it is raining, which takes them by surprise; the recent repairs to the roof are apparently top-notch, thanks to Sturges. Scowling, MacCready tucks his collar up around his ears and snaps his coat shut.

There is always a small kerfuffle when Nate returns to Sanctuary. Most of the settlers have come to their doors and windows to catch a look at him. Few venture outside into the unpleasant weather.

Nate, when they spot him, is in rough shape. His face is battered, almost unrecognizable, a month-old beard filling in on his cheeks. He is hunched, and limping, and carrying a ratty bundle to his chest. Seeing him, MacCready breaks into a jog. Running isn’t Hancock’s style, and besides they’ll need a moment, so when he sidles up, he comes into the middle of a conversation.

“God damn, Nate,” says MacCready, softly.

Nate makes eye contact with Hancock. He shifts his grip.

“Oh,” says Hancock.

It’s a baby. Brand new, if its size and shriveled appearance are anything to go by. It is grizzling quietly, but not worked up to crying yet.

“Yeah,” says Nate.

MacCready makes an aborted motion, as if to take the child from him, but then seems to think better of it. He has a strange expression on his face – anxious, happy-sad. He tugs the brim of his hat down lower over his eyes.

“When did you get knocked up?” asks Hancock. He’s kidding, but MacCready jumps.

Fortunately, Nate laughs. “Not me. I found it. There was a caravan on the road that had been attacked by raiders. He was the only thing left.”

“Bastards,” says MacCready. “Wow.”

The discussion is put on pause when Hancock bends to pick up the rucksack Nate has set down. When he lifts it, he finds it is waterlogged and clanging with odds and ends. Almost certainly nothing useful, nothing worth hauling miles and miles up to Sanctuary, anyway. Still, he lugs it back to town center, to the house that has been claimed as an unofficial headquarters. Eager to get out of the rain, the others follow.

Inside, Nate rings out his dripping coat. MacCready holds the baby, carefully, like it might explode.

“So,” says Hancock, stacking the playing cards and setting them aside, “what d’you think you’re going to do with it?”

“With what?” asks Nate. He’s stripped down and put on one of the ragged sweaters hanging by the entryway. “Oh, right.”

MacCready seems to come to and hands the baby back. “I’ll go make noodles,” he says blankly, and disappears.

Nate sits on the sofa across from Hancock. He winces, jostling something tender. “I didn’t think about it, really,” he says. “I just knew I couldn’t leave him there alone.”

“He’s damn lucky you found him,” says Hancock.

“I guess, yeah.”

It’s quiet, and without the game to distract him, he can finally hear the patter of rain outside. In the kitchen, MacCready scrapes and clatters and sighs. His boots squelch. The stove whines and smokes when he lights it, filling the house with the smell of smoke, then of garlic and ginger. Nate groans.

“I’m starved.”

Hancock sprawls across his seat. He observes the way Nate holds the kid, comfortable, easy, away from his injured leg. There hasn’t been much reason for Hancock to think about it before – Nate almost never speaks of it, keeps it buttoned shut and buried deep – but of course Nate would know babies. Hancock wonders how it must feel. Is Nate thinking of Shaun, too?

Feeling eyes on him, Nate glances up. It’s hard to read his face, because of the bruises that have almost swollen his eyes shut, if nothing else.

“What happened to you, by the way?” asks Hancock.

“Oh, uh. My own fault.” Nate smiles. “I fell off a building.”

“Sure.”

“I panicked. I thought, ‘It’s only two stories, what’s the worst that could happen?’ Mole rat holes, is the answer.”

“Ah.”

“Didn’t have the baby with me, yet. Thank god. This was just outside Concord. I don’t think anything’s broken, but it can’t hurt to have someone look at me.”

“I’ll get the doctor first thing in the morning,” says MacCready. He sets a bowl of noodles on the table. Sometimes he can be a bit funny, all prim and fussy – he doesn’t know he does it. Nate gives him a tender look, though, so Hancock doesn’t tease.

“Thank you, RJ.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it.”

MacCready sits and takes the baby so that Nate’s hands are free. The motions between them are automatic.

“Do we have formula around?” asks MacCready suddenly.

“We should, down in the food stores. I’ll ask Preston to take a look.”

“Why,” says Hancock with a grin. “Are we keeping it?”

Nate and MacCready share a look. “No,” says Nate, like it’s a question, and then more firmly. “No, I don’t think so.”

No one says anything, then. They sit in silence, letting Nate finish off his noodles. After a time, Preston stops in to hand him an ice pack and a bottle. He makes some friendly comment, but no one is really listening. It isn’t long before Nate goes to bed, hoping to sleep off the ache in his bones, and MacCready puts the bottle to the baby’s complaining mouth.

“You’re good at that,” says Hancock thoughtlessly.

MacCready’s eyes flash angry. “Thanks,” he says, but his tone is clipped.

Hancock’s stepped in it, whatever it is. Putting his hands up in surrender, he settles back in his seat. They sit together, waiting for the rain to stop.

\--

By morning, the storm has subsided, leaving behind a cold, lingering fog. Nate shuffles through to visit the doctor and MacCready settles down with a pen and paper to write a note. He chews ravenously on his fingernail while he works. The baby goes to Preston for the morning, and he takes to it with charming enthusiasm, chatting brightly as he roams about the settlement on his rounds.

The latest hit of jet has cooled in Hancock’s system by now, bringing feeling back into his body in waves. He feels warm all over, calm and centered, so he wanders outside where MacCready’s nervous energy won’t disturb him. It is no trouble to climb up to the roof and sprawl out in the fresh air. Listening to the chug of a nearby turret and the rasp of birdsong, Hancock lights a cigarette and shuts his eyes.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed when he hears someone calling his name.

“Hancock! Hey! Is that you up there?”

Hancock doesn’t move, blinking up at the gray clouds overhead. “Yeah?”

“Thought I recognized those ugly boots.”

That gets him to sit up. He wants to see who would dare insult his boots. Down in the driveway, smiling wide, is Nate – of course. From here, it’s hard to tell, but he is looking better. His scruff is shaven again, wounds tended, and a metal boot is strapped to his foot. It must be broken, after all.

“Brave of you to sass my footwear,” says Hancock, “when yours looks like that.”

Nate laughs, such a beloved, welcome sound. Now and then Hancock remembers that, if things had been different, he might have loved him. “Get down here, will you? I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Hancock. Tucking his arms around himself, he rolls off of the roof to the ground below. His landing is graceless but solid. Nate applauds politely. “You’re welcome.”

“Very nice,” says Nate. There is a pause as he hobbles to a nearby chair, which has been parked on the pavement to catch the few rays of sun peeking through the fog. That done, he continues. “So, about the kid.”

“Right.”

“You can see that I’m not in the best shape for travel, so I need someone to take him to Diamond City for me. He might have family looking for him, and if anyone can find them…”

“Nick can,” Hancock finishes for him. “I got it. Makes sense.”

“I figured you would. Can you take him?”

The question comes as no surprise, but it occurs to Hancock that he hadn’t considered what his answer would be. “I’m, uh, not exactly the fatherly type, friend.”

Nate’s mouth opens, then shuts. He frowns in thought.

“Look, I don’t mean to presume, but – couldn’t you and Mac…?”

“No,” says Nate. His voice is tired. “We – no. We can’t.”

Hancock decides that he shouldn’t press the issue. It’s a loss that he is grateful not to know personally. For his part, Nate rarely shows it, but every now and then his tone turns acid and no amount of playful cajoling will lighten his mood. Now isn’t one of those times; he is slumped, gentle and pensive as usual, just trying to get the job done.

And it is a job, Hancock thinks. He’s been through worse, so surely he can handle one baby for a few days. The thing isn’t even radioactive.

“Okay,” he says, and Nate perks up to listen. “I can take the kid to Nick. It’s no problem.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. No worries.”

“Thanks, Hancock. Really.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

And that is how, straight after lunch and two quick shots of moonshine, Hancock finds himself strapping diapers to his back and a baby to his front and heading out into the midday light.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The baby is an easy passenger. It makes little noise, sleeping most of the time and content to eat whatever is handed to it the rest of the time. Hancock finds that it is especially entertained by a strip of leather with keys tied to the end, so they jingle their way through Concord. Fortunately, the road is peaceful – the Minutemen’s doing – save for a handful of very big bugs. They make it to Cambridge in record time.

As night descends, Hancock sets camp and parks himself on a rotted tree stump, baby sat upon his lap. He has learned by trial and error that, if left unsupervised, the little guy will crawl off into the underbrush and become nigh impossible to find again.

They warm themselves by the fire. It is meagre (Hancock is no boy scout) but good enough. The baby makes a few nonsense noises and makes a grab for Hancock’s face.

“Joke’s on you, kid,” he says. “I ain’t got a nose.”

The baby slaps a sticky hand against Hancock’s cheek.

“All right. Let’s get some food in you.” Hancock shifts his grip so that his hands are free to fill a bottle with formula. He sets it near the fire to warm up. Preston had given him a written note with very detailed instructions on childcare, which Hancock had immediately “lost” on the road; he saw the kid eat a live cricket earlier today, so he imagines it’s not as complicated as everyone makes it out to be. He can feel the tiny hands yanking at the buttons on his coat as he pokes at his firewood with a stick.

They will make it to Diamond City tomorrow, provided the usual route hasn’t been stopped up by gangs since he came through last. After all, a loan ghoul is already enough of a target for thieves and the like – and a ghoul with a smooth-skin baby will be a neon sign of temptation. Hancock can only hope that the runner with MacCready’s letter has made it to Nick by now.

He isn’t sure what will happen when he gets there. He supposes there’s no point in worrying.

While the baby drinks its bottle, Hancock pulls a warm beer from his backpack and takes a swig. The image of the two of them makes him smile. Like two drunks at last call, he thinks.

“You’re my drinking buddy now, kid,” he says.

The baby hiccups.

“Better company than most, too. You don’t talk back.”

In short order, the night around them grows darker. Hancock doesn’t need much sleep, so he props himself against the stump to rest, the baby bundled tight and strapped against his front. Something about it is soothing, its body heat seeping through his coat, its snuffling breath barely audible over the racket of insects in the night. To his surprise, Hancock falls asleep.

\--

He wakes to the feeling of someone trying to yank off his shoes. “Hey!” he shouts, before he is even fully conscious, and he kicks hard. The thief grunts, stumbling back; it gives Hancock enough time to get to his feet. One hand flies to his chest, checking his cargo. The baby is still there. It’s crying.

“Shit!” says the thief. He’s a teenager in Gunner green. “That’s a baby!”

Hancock doesn’t want to kill someone that young if he can help it. Still, he pulls his knife from its sheath in his belt. There is no hint of motion in the grass around them, no sound but their breathing. It looks like they’re alone. “Sure is,” says Hancock. “So it would be best for you to put back what you stole and fuck off.”

The Gunner puts his hands up to show that he has nothing. He turns out his pockets, but all that falls out is a crumpled carton of cigarettes, a lighter, and a small tin of caps.

“What, you went for the boots first?” asks Hancock. He can’t stop himself from smiling.

“I mean, they looked nice.”

“Shit. That’s what I’ve been saying.” The baby is still crying, so Hancock begins to bounce a little where he stands, not lowering his knife yet. He feels ridiculous, but it seems to soothe nonetheless. “Get out of here, then. Take your trash with you.”

Fortunately, the Gunner doesn’t need persuading. He grabs his belongings and jogs back towards the city. Only when he is out of sight does Hancock put the knife away.

“Auspicious start to the day, wouldn’t you say, Buddy?” he says to the baby. The baby only fusses, hungry and frightened and probably wet. Hancock hadn’t accounted for how complicated fighting would be with such a valuable package in his possession. The mortal fear that had hit him was novel, and not in the fun way.

Sighing, physically shaking out his jitters, Hancock sets about tending to the child. While it drinks a fresh bottle, Hancock takes a hit, just to take the edge off. Hopefully that’s the worst of what they’ll go through today.

He comes to a few minutes later; the baby is crawling into his lap to rest its head on his knee. All at once, Hancock feels choked.

“Come on,” he says. He scoops up the bundle and straps it back in against his chest. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The baby squawks happily.

Picking up his backpack, Hancock marches for the road. For the first time, he notices that the sun is out. He lets himself turn his face up into it, soaking up its warmth.

\--

The thief from that morning was an omen, Hancock discovers; the usual route is marked with Gunner signs and suspiciously clear of trade traffic. Ownership of the major paths to Diamond City shifts like the weather – more often clear than not, but still overtaken by factions on occasion. It would be stupid to walk right into a mole rat nest.

So Hancock heads east. The baby burbles and flaps and generally makes itself a nuisance, until Hancock develops an exaggerated, loping pace that entertains it enough. He finds more and more that he is willing to make a fool of himself to keep their relationship pleasant. Now and then he will hazard a few twirls for variety’s sake.

It is a bit frustrating, having to find conflict-free roads; it’s the first time in a long time that Hancock has had to consider the physical safety of someone other than himself on a job. He only runs with a trusted few anymore. And this escort is very particular.

All told, it takes an unreasonable amount of time to reach the entrance to Diamond City. As he approaches, the sun is almost set, casting everything in a sharp orange light. For a moment, all Hancock can think of is safety – getting inside, undoing the belts around his middle and setting the kid down at last, letting Valentine take over for him. But he has hardly stepped onto the sidewalk before someone is yelling at him.

“Stop there!” shouts one of the guards. “No ghouls allowed in Diamond City.”

“Shit!” says Hancock, remembering. Then, realizing what this means, he says louder, “Fuck!”

“Move along,” the guard orders.

“Listen,” says Hancock, thinking fast; he can’t take on all of these guards, not even if he was alone. He opens his arms wide to show that he is unarmed and to provide an unobstructed view of the baby he carries with him. “We’re in need, here. I have to talk to Nick Valentine. I know you know who that is. I don’t even need to go in – I just need him to come out here and collect this kid.”

“No ghouls allowed,” the guard repeats.

“Wh… Did you not hear what I said? I won’t go in. I just need to talk to Nick Valentine.”

“This is your last warning.”

“Come on, brother. Shit. I’ve got a baby here.”

A warning shot chips off the pavement by Hancock’s feet. The sound makes the baby start to cry. Swearing, Hancock backs off. Half of his anger is towards himself – he should have been smarter, should have thought ahead – but another part of him bristles at the injustice of it. It’s been decades and nothing has gotten better around here. They’d rather send a child to its death than let a ghoul step foot in their precious city. If this weren’t for Nate, he’d say fuck the whole thing and take the kid to Goodneighbor instead.

But he had promised Nate. That means something to Hancock, now.

It’s not safe to wander too far, especially at night. Hancock camps as close to the guard perimeter as he can manage. He unstraps and comforts the baby until all is quiet again. And he waits.

\--

It’s almost another day before Hancock can convince a passing trader to deliver a message for him on the inside. He nearly has to beg, which is something he would never have considered under any other circumstance – but he only has enough formula for a week, and even less food for himself, and every hour spent huddled in the middle of Boston is riskier than the last. He has to get to Valentine, somehow.

The first trader is a wash. The day passes through night with no sign of Valentine. In the morning, Hancock tries again.

This time, thankfully, he succeeds. It isn’t long before Nick Valentine appears in front of him, shiny in the dead heat of the midday sun, hat pulled low over his glowing eyes.

“Heard you were having some trouble out here,” he says, and he sounds amused.

“God, am I glad to see you,” says Hancock. He means it, too. “I’ve been stuck out here for three fuckin’ days.”

“Sorry about that. I would have come sooner, but it took that long for word to reach me.”

“I thought you were expecting me. Didn’t Mac write you?”

“Timeline was fuzzy. Wasn’t sure if you were going to encounter any trouble on the way down.”

“Sounds like an excuse,” says Hancock, but he can’t stop himself from smiling. Taking the jab, Valentine smiles back.

“So, are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Ha! Yeah. Here’s your special delivery.” Hancock shucks his coat to undo the sling entirely, passing the baby into Valentine’s waiting arms. He watches the way that Valentine adjusts to the weight with natural ease, like he’s done this before; he probably has. His yellow eyes dart all over the baby’s face, taking it in, committing it to memory. Something about it makes Hancock feel anxious. “He hasn’t been any trouble. Nate says he found him in a raided caravan in Concord. No names on any of the bodies, but there was a ledger from a brewery near here.” He pauses. “I’ve, uh, been calling him Buddy for now.”

“Buddy,” echoes Valentine thoughtfully. The baby squirms and reaches for Hancock with a baleful noise. “Looks like he’s attached to you, John.”

The name takes a minute to register. No one has called him that in years – but then again, few people have known him as long as Valentine has. Hancock feels himself flush. “Yeah, well. He doesn’t know any better.”

“It looks to me like you’ve taken good care of him,” says Valentine.

The baby is getting louder.

“All right, all right,” laughs Valentine. “Let’s go.”

He turns to leave, but to Hancock’s surprise, he stops at the door and looks back.

“What?” asks Hancock. He is already digging for a Mentat in his pockets, a reward for a job well done.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Frustration lances through him, quick and hot, and is gone just as fast. “You forget who you’re talking to?” he asks, and this time his smile is a little forced. “I can’t get in.”

“That won’t be a problem,” says Valentine gently, “if you’re with me.”

Hancock hesitates, only for a minute. He is sure Valentine could use the help looking after Buddy, at least until his family is found. Shrugging, he collects the last of his supplies and throws the backpack over his shoulder. “I’m with you.”

\--

The guards still give him a lot of grief at the entrance, going roughly through his pockets and frisking him. Hancock suspects they would have stolen from him, too, if Valentine wasn’t standing right there watching with those penetrating synth eyes.

“I told them I’m with the Minutemen, but they didn’t believe me,” jokes Hancock, once the ordeal is behind them. Valentine laughs softly.

The layout of the city is familiar, but some of the shops have rearranged themselves, changing the paths to the housing on the field beyond. Streets that Hancock remembers as being gravel or wood planks have been paved over or replaced by metal grating. A few of the shops have different names. Despite all of this, though, it still feels like stepping into a memory. He tries not to feel disappointed in himself for thinking of the word ‘home.’

“You can stay here with me,” says Valentine as he leads them to his office. “I have a bed for myself that I rarely use.”

“I won’t be here too long,” says Hancock.

“Sure. I just thought you might want to see this through.”

Valentine glances at him over his shoulder as he unlocks the door. The baby is back in Hancock’s arms, sleepy but curious and wide-eyed. Valentine looks between them pointedly.

His job is done, Hancock knows. He was not asked to be the kid’s guardian, after all; but it doesn’t feel right to leave him here, in another strange place all alone. He’s gone through enough. If Hancock can see him off to his family, he would like to – and it isn’t as though Nate’s been keeping him busy lately, anyway. Freelancing is a lot more flexible than mayoring ever was.

Hancock sighs as Valentine opens the door and ushers them inside. He is surprised to see a makeshift crib already set up in the corner, fashioned from a wooden crate lined with cloth.

“Swanky digs, Detective.”

“What?” asks Valentine, but then seems to understand just as quickly. “Oh. Thanks. It’s good enough for this old synth, anyway.”

Still taking stock of the place, Hancock moves to set Buddy down in the crib and then pop that Mentat he had been planning on. It will take a minute to hit his system, so he kicks off his boots and lays out on the bare mattress Valentine keeps for himself. It’s old and creaky, but a far sight better than the bare ground he has been sleeping on this week. Shutting his eyes, he groans out loud.

Valentine knocks against the wall to get his attention. “Anything you need?”

If it were anyone else, Hancock would want to search the place and get a sense of his escape routes, chokepoints, resources. With Valentine, though, he knows he’s in good hands.

“I’m good for now, pal,” he says. “Thanks.”

The expression on Valentine’s face is hard to read, but he’s smiling, so Hancock doesn’t worry about it. “Anytime.”

The Mentat starts to kick in, bursts of light and confidence, and Hancock loses hours to his thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

It looks like the search is going to be slow going for Valentine. Of course, ‘male human infant, 6 (?) months old, medium brown skin/brown eyes/black hair, found in Concord, name unknown’ is hardly specific enough to attract the kind of attention they need. Valentine taps his network to start asking around, but as the days trickle by, Hancock starts to worry that the trading caravan Nate had found was the only family Buddy had.

For his own part, Hancock stays off the streets, holing up in Valentine’s office and staying cool on the last of his jet and then on old-fashioned booze and cigarettes. Valentine scolds him, but it isn’t as though he’s going to confiscate Hancock’s chems, so they settle into a mutually wary truce on the matter.

“I’ll be less help in withdrawal than I am on a steady dose,” says Hancock.

“Emphasis on steady,” mutters Valentine, but that’s that.

\--

After the fifth day, Valentine turns to him out of the blue and says, “You ought to get some fresh air. If you want dinner, I’m buying.”

“You can’t even eat,” argues Hancock, stupidly, because he is actually hungry.

“No, but I can enjoy the company, and it’s good to run into folks and see how they’re doing now and then.”

“I don’t think anyone will be wanting to run into this mug.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” says Valentine, laughter in his voice, and if he were anyone else that would almost be close enough to flirting to count. He isn’t, though; he’s Valentine, but Hancock can play ball.

“I never pegged you for a rule-breaker. You mind being seen with a ghoul on your arm?”

To his surprise, Valentine is unruffled. He throws on his coat. “Not if you don’t mind being seen with a synth.”

Grinning, Hancock picks himself up off of the mattress. “You gotta ask?”

“No, I don’t,” says Valentine. “Do you trust Ellie to watch Buddy for a few hours?”

“Yeah, sure.” Hancock trusts Valentine’s judgement enough on that – and he has seen Ellie hold her own in a scrap, himself. “A synth, a ghoul, and a baby walking into a bar sounds like a set-up.”

That makes Valentine laugh out loud. It’s nice to hear him unbuttoned for a moment, he takes himself so seriously. Decades ago, when Hancock was young and human, his pranks and sarcastic quips would make Valentine laugh, even when he was supposed to be in trouble. It had felt like a victory then. It feels like a victory now.

Hancock knows himself. He is easily and gladly attracted to most people, and the line between sex and friendship is more of a blurry suggestion than anything else. What’s more, Valentine has always had that whole grizzled older man thing that has been a draw for Hancock for as long as he can remember. But it doesn’t have to mean anything. In fact, it probably shouldn’t.

Still, it can’t hurt to look.

“Let me put on my boots,” he says.

Laughter still pulls at the corners of Valentine’s mouth, leaving him with a faint smile. “You and those damn boots.”

“Yeah, yeah. Register your complaints during business hours. And don’t forget you promised to buy.”

\--

As the weeks roll by, Hancock and Valentine establish a rhythm around each other. During the day, Hancock mostly gets high and sleeps, while Ellie and Valentine run the office and look after Buddy. At night, he and Valentine have long chats, dressed down to slacks and shirts with their feet on various furniture, or they will go for walks in the safety of the dark, or go for drinks at the friendlier vendors. As the month closes out, Hancock notices fewer people making comments about his appearance. He is beginning to lose his novelty.

When he is in the office, Hancock is comfortable enough. Valentine nags him and laughs at his jokes and bounces theories off of him, and the air smells like smoke and lemon tea and baby powder, and Buddy crawls around their feet and gets into the trash to chew on crumpled paper. It’s nice.

But it’s impossible to forget where he is. This is not Goodneighbor. It’s not even Sanctuary, which despite its squeaky-clean idyll at least accepts anyone looking for shelter. Diamond City is false down to the core of it. Even cooped up as he is, Hancock hears often about the mistreatment of the people living on the field or of families turned away at the gate.

“I’m remembering why I left this place,” he complains one evening, spread-eagled on the floor with Buddy napping on his stomach.

Valentine makes a noise to indicate he is listening, but he doesn’t look away from the notes scattered across his desk. In the quiet, sometimes Hancock can hear the click and whir of him as he thinks. The sound is soothing in its own way.

“Don’t know how to fix it, either,” continues Hancock. “The people here are too soft for a riot. Not just that they wouldn’t do it – it wouldn’t take. It would be too traumatizing. They don’t know how to stand up for themselves.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” says Valentine. “Not to be hardened by the world outside.”

“At least outside is free. It’s real. And they could be helping people, instead of – fucking – hoarding it all.”

Sighing, Valentine leans back in his seat to look at him. He’s heard this all before from Hancock more than once. “I don’t know what to tell you, John.”

“How can you stand it? How can you stand to live in this place?”

“I like my job,” says Valentine. His voice is soft, mindful of the Buddy’s sleep. “When people come to me with their problems, I can help them. I can make Diamond City a little bit better.”

He doesn’t say the other part, about how Diamond City was the place to take him in when he had nowhere to go, how they are now possibly the only place outside of Goodneighbor or Sanctuary that would keep him.

And Valentine wouldn’t last a week in Goodneighbor. He is too good, inside.

Hancock doesn’t have a response, so he lets his head thump back against the floor. He can feel a damp spot spreading where Buddy is drooling. Something in his chest feels all stopped up. “So how is it going finding the little guy’s family?” he asks at last.

“Not great,” says Valentine honestly. “The worst part is the number of inquiries we are getting. There are a lot of missing kids out there.”

“Shit,” breathes Hancock. He stares at the ceiling.

“I’ve been filing those away for later. I hope that I’ll be able to find some leads on those, too, after this.”

“That’s… thank you.”

“It’s my job.” Valentine smiles a little now, and some of the ache in Hancock’s heart eases.

“We do good work, you and me,” he says.

“Yeah,” agrees Valentine. “We sure do.”

\--

On an otherwise uneventful evening, a massive radstorm hits Diamond City. The thunder is violent enough to shake the building, knocking odds and ends off of the shelves. Hancock can feel the radiation like static over his skin. Buddy cries.

To dull the headache building between his eyes, Hancock cracks open a warm beer and sits down against the wall. He watches as Valentine paces the office with Buddy in his arms, trying his best to calm him. Not for the first time, Hancock wonders if the original Nick Valentine ever had children of his own.

“You’re good at that,” he says, surprising himself.

Valentine’s yellow eyes meet his, and then quickly away again; in his time here, Hancock has learned that the man is unexpectedly bashful. “Thanks.”

Then, with an enormous crash, the power goes out.

“Damn,” says Valentine. His glowing eyes are the only source of light. “Hold on.”

Hancock can hear him rummaging around, and after a moment the warm glow of a lantern lights the room. Using that to guide him, it isn’t long before Valentine also has some candles lit. The shadows around them are fuzzy now. In the half-dark, Valentine’s face looks almost human.

“Mood lighting,” jokes Hancock. “You know how to treat a guy, Nick.”

Valentine’s laugh is a little too self-conscious to be genuine, but Hancock appreciates the gesture anyway. In the pause that follows, they realize that Buddy has finally calmed down.

“There we go,” says Valentine. He comes to sit down on a chair across from where Hancock sits sprawled on the floor. Once, he had commented on Hancock’s propensity for lying down wherever the urge hits him, but he seems to have warmed to the habit since then. They both have grown to learn each other’s quirks. Of course, they have already known each other a very long time – but not like this. This is different. Intimate, Hancock thinks traitorously.

“Told you,” he says, watching Valentine settle Buddy on his knee, “you’re good.”

“I think he’s just tuckered himself out, that’s all.” But Valentine smiles anyway.

“He doesn’t look tired to me,” Hancock replies, because Buddy has begun trying to stick his hands in Valentine’s mouth and squealing cheerfully when Valentine pulls away.

“I can’t afford any more damage to the chassis, kid.” Then – wonderfully, lovingly – he pretends to bite at Buddy’s hands. Buddy screams with glee. The choked feeling builds up in Hancock’s throat again. Like most things around here, it is starting to become familiar.

Buddy changes tack, now tugging Valentine’s hat down over his eyes until all Hancock can see is his grin.

“I think you’re his favorite,” he says. “Should I be jealous?”

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Valentine replies. “I give him Sugar Bombs when you’re not around.”

Hancock laughs. “You son of a bitch. That’s cheating!”

Picking up on his tone, Buddy starts to laugh, too. He claps his chubby hands.

“Sure, rub it in,” Hancock tells him. Buddy shrieks happily.

Valentine pushes his hat back where it belongs and catches Hancock’s gaze. Naturally, his eyes are captivating, bright and colorful and a little mischievous. When prompted, he will talk about his memories as human Nick Valentine, but the details are vague. Hancock is under the impression that the original Valentine was a little bit of a rogue.

It is hard for Hancock to recognize the feeling of this moment, with all of them smiling at each other in the dark of a blackout, the sound of thunder all around. The feeling is brilliant and tender. It sinks into every part of him and stays. Offhand, it is a little bit like the experience of taking jet – if jet were made of melted butter. From what he’s heard, Hancock supposes he would call it happiness.


	4. Chapter 4

The thing about being a ghoul is that time moves differently. The days mean less to Hancock the older he gets. Before he knows it, a year has passed in Diamond City.

People greet him in the streets now. Nate stops by on occasion to check in and take him on brief adventures around the Commonwealth, though he tries not to be gone long. Between those excursions, he keeps himself busy helping Valentine with his investigations, finding satisfaction in solving people’s problems. Meanwhile, Buddy grows like a weed, almost too fast to keep clothed, and starts to walk and talk. It has become apparent to Hancock and Valentine that they aren’t going to find any living family for him, but neither of them wants to discuss where to put him. They don’t want to let him go.

It is strange to Hancock to have been locked down for so long. He can’t remember the last time he has gotten into a proper, filthy fight. But, looking around the office that has become his home, he realizes that he is exactly where he wants to be.

One evening, one of the evenings where they are wandering around together on the field with no particular goal in mind, Hancock says, “You know, uh… I never said thank you. For letting me crash your agency.”

For a moment, Valentine doesn’t answer. He fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, eyes fixed on the cloud of insects buzzing around the stadium lights. He takes a deep drag. “You did, I think.”

“Maybe. But I wanted to say it anyway, in case I didn’t. Being here with you and Buddy, it’s… the best thing I’ve ever had. So, thank you.”

“It’s no problem, John.” Valentine seems to hesitate, and then adds, “It’s been nice to have you.”

“Well, uh…” Hancock laughs. “It’s not like I’m planning on leaving, or anything. Not unless you want me to.”

He doesn’t answer directly, but Valentine shakes his head. He breathes out a slow stream of blue smoke.

“Hey,” says Hancock quietly, “could I get one?”

“Yeah.” Valentine plucks the cigarette from his lips. “Here.” He turns to place the cigarette into Hancock’s mouth. Stunned, Hancock can only stand there and let it happen. He watches, breathless, as Valentine pulls another one out of his coat pocket and lights it for himself.

“Smooth,” he says, and swears internally. He’s never had a filter, even when he needs it most.

Valentine laughs. He keeps walking, so Hancock follows. His face feels like it’s on fire.

He knows that he wants Valentine. He’s wanted him since he was a kid, in a vague and general kind of way – but it’s started to feel different since he came to Diamond City. He knows he must be obvious, but Valentine seems content to humor him and nothing more.

Hancock’s hand shakes as he takes the cigarette out of his mouth. He wills himself to settle down.

\--

The nature of Valentine’s work often requires that he leaves for days at a time as he visits nearby settlements and contacts for information. More often than not, Hancock tags along, happy to provide some firepower when Valentine gets himself into trouble – but sometimes he stays behind to keep an eye on Buddy.

Now that he is more than a year old, Buddy is starting to show signs of his own personality. Unfortunately, being around Hancock and Valentine has made him a grumpy old man in an infant’s body. Most recently, he has begun saying, in a flawless imitation of Hancock’s trademark gravel voice, “I need a drink,” before laying down with his sippy cup in the afternoons. The first time it had happened, Valentine had laughed himself to whatever the synth equivalent of tears might be.

Valentine has been gone for more than a week this time. Hancock keeps Buddy entertained with a series of art projects, until the back wall of Valentine’s office is covered in finger-painted paper in gradating shades of pink, red, orange, and yellow. If Hancock gets in on the finger-painting action, no one knows but him and the kid.

“I miss Pop,” says Buddy one night, midway through stacking a fairly impressive block tower. He calls Valentine ‘Pop,’ which had at first made both adults uncomfortable, but he could not be persuaded to call him anything else. Hancock, for his part, is affectionately referred to as ‘Hammy.’

“I know, Buddy,” says Hancock. He turns one of the blocks upside-down, and wrangles a smile when Buddy fastidiously puts it right-side-up again. “Me, too.”

“Scary,” says Buddy. Hancock guesses that he means he is worried.

“Yeah, I hear you. Don’t sweat it, though. Valentine is smart enough to take care of himself.” He chuckles to himself. “That’s how he got to be so damn old.”

That makes Buddy laugh. He doesn’t get the joke, but he knows the sound of Hancock’s laughter.

“Old man,” he says, and maybe he does get it.

“Yeah,” says Hancock, and makes a face. “Pop’s _old_.”

“Pop’s _old_.” Then, with a great burst of enthusiasm, Buddy knocks his block tower down. He laughs delightedly at Hancock’s generous applause.

The latest Valentine has ever left them has been a week and a half, but as of tonight, that deadline has passed. Hancock struggles to sleep all night, listening to the sound of Buddy’s breathing in his ear, feeling his iron grip on the lapels of Hancock’s coat. Buddy can’t sleep on his own when Valentine is away.

They spend six more nights this way.

It takes great effort not to worry. Hancock is rewarded when, one afternoon while Buddy is napping, a rain-slick Valentine steps through the doors to his office, home again at last. At once, Hancock jumps to his feet from where he had been slouched in one of the chairs, eating chips. “Holy shit,” he says.

Valentine, shucking his wet jacket with a rueful smile, opens his arms in greeting. “Honey, I’m home,” he jokes. It misses.

“Fuck, Nick, where did you go?”

“Far Harbor.”

It takes a moment for Hancock to remember where that is. “Fuck,” he says. “That’s – uh. That’s far. You okay?”

“Yeah,” says Valentine, but his tone is unconvincing. “Yeah. Just, uh… Left there with a lot to think about.” He pauses, glancing towards the bed where Buddy lies asleep.

Hancock can’t help but stare. Valentine meets his gaze and holds it before he self-consciously looks away again. “Sounds like you need to talk,” says Hancock finally.

“That… That would be nice.”

“Let me fetch Ellie. We’ll go for drinks.”

At that, Valentine’s smile turns genuine. “Thank you. I like the sound of that.”

\--

To his credit, Hancock does a very good job of being a shoulder to lean on. He listens without interrupting, commiserates when needed, and asks appropriate questions. His only mistake is one that he really should have seen coming: he drinks way too much. Somewhere between “Thanks for hearing me out,” and “Let’s get you home, John,” it hits him that he’s messed it up.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Nicky,” he slurs on their way out the door. He can hear Vadim laughing at him (the asshole).

Valentine’s laughter, though, sounds almost affectionate. “You’re fine.”

It’s not often that Hancock overextends himself like this; he’s had more than fifty years of practice drinking, after all. The way the ground lurches is more unpleasant than fun. “I fucked up,” he says.

“You listened to me, and that was all I needed,” says Valentine. “We’ll have a problem if you vomit on me, though.”

“Not gonna vomit.”

“We’ll see.”

Ellie greets them at the door of the agency with a knowing look in her eye. Apparently she has already put Buddy to sleep for the night, back in his own bed for the first time in weeks. She truly is a miracle worker, Hancock thinks drunkenly. He pats her on the arm, which makes her giggle.

Everything is dreamlike to Hancock. Before he knows it, Valentine has stripped him of his hat, his coat, his boots. He is being poured into bed, hands on him both familiar and unfamiliar, those yellow eyes watching him. He reaches up to tug on Valentine’s shirt and pull him closer.

“John,” says Valentine, a warning.

“We missed you,” says Hancock. “You know that?” He lets go, but Valentine doesn’t move too far away. “I missed you too damn much.”

Valentine’s expression is unreadable. It looks almost sad, which isn’t what Hancock wanted.

“Did you miss us?” he asks, hating the way he sounds.

“Of course I did,” says Valentine. “Get some sleep, now.”

“Yeah, okay. Just… be here when I wake up.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“Good,” says Hancock. It is a struggle to stay awake. “That’s good.”

“And when you wake up, we’ll talk about your substance use.”

Hancock smiles, even as he shuts his eyes. “Don’t nag,” he says.

If Valentine answers, he doesn’t hear it. Sleep creeps up on him and swallows him whole.


	5. The End

Hancock knows that they need to talk. He doesn’t want to. Avoidance has, after all, been the best-used tool in his arsenal. But when he wakes, letting a Mentat melt the throbbing of his headache, he watches Valentine with Buddy in his arms, enthusing over the paintings they have put up on his wall, and all Hancock can think about is knocking his hat to the floor and kissing him senseless.

It’s a discussion that really can’t wait any longer.

It does, though. They spend the day with casual slowness, soaking in the presence of each other, reestablishing the rhythm that had been broken by Valentine’s absence. That night, they walk the perimeter. The next day, they do it again. Neither of them mentions Hancock’s pathetic clinging from the other night, but there is a quiet promise in Valentine’s demeanor that he will not be gone so long again.

Buddy develops a fever, and between bouts of fussing and being sick, he sleeps. Concerned, Hancock hovers by his side, no matter how the doctor assures him everything is fine. He spends three days sat by Buddy’s bedside, keeping track of the motion of his breathing. At length, when his work for the day is done, Valentine sits beside him.

“He’s going to be all right,” says Valentine.

Hancock says, “We’re gonna keep him, aren’t we?” (which was not what he had expected to say).

They’re crowded together between the cot and the staircase, alone aside from Buddy. The air is hot, a mix of summer heat and Buddy’s fever, just a few shades short of uncomfortable. Valentine turns to look at him. He is close enough to touch.

“We?” he asks.

Hancock frowns. “Yeah, ‘we.’ I mean, we’re a family. A family most people would want to see destroyed, probably. But we’re a family anyway. Right?”

It’s a lot to throw at him out of nowhere, but Valentine takes it like a champ, brows drawing together in thought as he studies Hancock’s face. At last, he says, “You really mean that, huh?”

“I mean it. We’re a team, you and me. And I – you and Buddy are all that matter to me anymore.” He pauses, expecting to be interrupted, but Valentine is just looking at him with those big yellow eyes. “So if you’re here and he’s here, then I’m here. I don’t want to leave. I want to be here.” He thumps Valentine’s chest where a heart would be. “Right here.” Remembering himself, he adds, “If you want me.”

“You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you,” says Nick. His voice is raspy, quiet. “But you should think about this. This is long-term, John. You’ll be keeping Buddy for a lifetime. And I’ll keep even longer than that.”

“I ain’t going anywhere,” says Hancock. “I want you, too.”

Valentine swears, something out-of-date and charming, breaking eye contact to fiddle around with a button on his coat, as if that is suddenly very important. Impulsively, Hancock slaps the hat off of his head, just like he wanted to. Valentine’s mouth drops open.

“Hey!”

Hancock grasps him by his coat – stupid, just as stupid as his own – and hauls him in, feeling no resistance when he does. “Gonna kiss you now. Okay?”

Valentine is trying not to laugh, trying not to wake Buddy, who is sleeping just beside them. “Okay,” he says, and they do.

\--

“You know,” says Valentine a few weeks later, “I’ve never had a relationship before. Not as a synth, at least.”

“Hmm,” says Hancock. He is halfway through a bowl of noodles, opposite the desk from Valentine, who is going through some logs on his computer. More than once, Valentine has mentioned how much he likes having a housemate who eats; it keeps him on a reasonable schedule. For Hancock, having a schedule to eat is just as new. He is used to long stretches with only chems for sustenance; that’s not as feasible now, with Buddy to look after. “How’s it going for you so far?”

Valentine won’t look at him. “Strange,” he says honestly, but his voice is warm.

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t know that touch could be comforting to me in this body. I have haptic feedback, of course, but no one has ever…” Too bashful to continue, he shrugs. It makes Hancock grin, leaning back in his seat. At once, Valentine snaps his fingers at him. He hates boots on his desk.

Between the two of them, neither Hancock nor Valentine have any of the traditional parts for sex – becoming a ghoul tends to eliminate the extra bits – but they are a clever and creative pair. Touch has been a learning experience, the practice of lying beside another person to sleep, of something as simple as a kiss that leads nowhere.

Clearing his throat, Valentine finally looks up again. “I didn’t think I could feel like this. I wasn’t exactly built for companionship.”

“Me neither,” says Hancock, and Valentine laughs. “But I think we’re taking a damn good shot at it.”

“A damn good shot,” Valentine agrees.

From around the corner, Buddy starts to stir. It’s only a moment before he is padding clumsily into the office, scrubbing at his sleepy eyes. He crawls into Hancock’s lap without ceremony and digs into what’s left in his bowl. Without thinking, Hancock drops a kiss into his dark, downy hair.

\--

The years slip by this way. Nate visits now and then to tap one or both of them for an errand. Otherwise, Hancock picks up some vigilante detective work just outside the reach of Diamond City Police, while Valentine works the beat inside the stadium. Between the two of them, the streets of Boston are a little bit safer, and seeing Hancock’s face around has shifted public sentiment towards ghouls. They are still generally barred from entry, but a settlement has cropped up on the pavement just outside the gates, and the perimeter guards them just the same as any other citizens.

On quieter nights, Hancock likes to sit on the roof, listening to the sounds of the city in motion. Valentine will join him once Buddy is asleep, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, bringing Hancock a cigarette, a beer, a sweet roll. On the nights Buddy doesn’t sleep, he will come up here too, the three of them clustered together in a tangle of arms and legs. If he closes his eyes, Hancock can see his future carrying on just like this, another century, or two, or three, with Valentine by his side.

There was a time when that would have scared him. Not anymore.

“We’re eternal, you and me,” he says. Valentine chuckles and blows a cloud of smoke.

“Don’t start getting spotty on me, sweetheart.”

“I was always spotty,” Hancock replies, though he isn’t sure what ‘spotty’ means.

“Fair enough.”

They fall into a companionable silence, content to simply exist. Someone down below coughs. A couple is having riotously loud sex somewhere nearby. On the balcony across the street, a dog barks; it almost sounds like Dogmeat.

Hancock thinks of Buddy (his son – _his son_ ) safe and sound downstairs. He smiles to himself. “When I agreed to bring Buddy down here,” he says, “I told Nate I wasn’t the fatherly type.”

“Maybe you weren’t,” says Valentine. He puts an arm around Hancock’s shoulders and pulls him even closer, until Hancock can feel the gentle hum of his inner workings, soothing as a heartbeat. “But I’d say that you are now.”

\--f

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! Comments appreciated!! :)


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